


take me a taste of what you're biting back

by CultOfAdoration



Category: Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Blood Kink, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Murder Kink, Unnamed OCs - Freeform, headcanons abound, vague descriptions of slasher movie deaths, violence kink, we all already know about mary's...extracurricular activities right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 10:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21372946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CultOfAdoration/pseuds/CultOfAdoration
Summary: Mary likes POV porn, pass it on.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	take me a taste of what you're biting back

It’s nearly 12 in the afternoon by the time Mary finally staggers his way back home to the cheap, shitty apartment he shares with one of his bandmates and two other guys. He stands in the entryway, swaying slightly with exhaustion and a leftover buzz from last night’s partying, staring blankly into the empty living room. The haphazardly blocked out windows cast the room in a hazy, orange-ish hue. 

The door is slammed behind him, rattling the glass in the window panes, a neighbor pounding on the wall and shouting unintelligibly at the return of Mary’s usual thoughtless noisemaking. In response, Mary bangs the side of his fist against their shared wall. “Yeah, whatever, asshole!” His neighbor shouts back. Somewhere in the building, a pack of at least six lapdogs start yapping their little heads off. Great. Fucking Pomeranians.

“Look what you did!” Mary yells through the wall when he realizes that the dogs’ owner probably doesn’t care to quiet them down. Maybe he wouldn’t be such an asshole if this shithole didn’t suck so bad.

Mary doesn’t bother to change out of last night’s obviously slept-in clothes or even take off his ostentatiously studded vest he wore to that party. After making a quick stop in the kitchen to chug a glass of water and hunt down his lighter, he makes his way to the threadbare couch. He grabs the sharpie and ratty spiralbound notebook he’d left there the night before, its yellow cover barely hanging on, and kicks his boots up on the scraped and scuffed surface of the coffee table. The TV flickers to life after a few seconds of struggling, still on whatever shitty daytime talk show Sid might’ve watched that morning. Mary scoffs and flips through the channels until he finds something actually worthwhile.

The Haunting Presence. 1992. _Classic_. 

A slow grin creeps across his face, cranking the volume right as that mulletted, spray-tanned idiot Bobby catches a hatchet to the neck. It even gets a slight chuckle out of him, just a sharp exhale through his nose. Other than that, he sits in relative silence, only half-watching in favor of scribbling in his notebook, but still occasionally laughing or grumbling affectionately about how fucking stupid this movie is. It’s only when they get to that scene that he starts really focusing. It’s nothing special – or it wouldn’t be to anyone else but Mary – just the formulaic scene shot from the killer’s perspective as they hunt down their prey. The killer’s black latex gloved hands clutching their axe are barely visible at the bottom of the screen, the edges of which are blurred by the eyeholes of their mask. All that’s audible is the sound of the killer’s deep, ragged breathing. Mary swallows and slowly caps the sharpie, all heat in his face quickly moving south. A small moan escapes him when he palms at himself over his jeans, eyes glued to the screen. 

By the time the killer creeps their way along the treeline, observing the totally-not-30-years-old spring breakers getting hot and heavy in the woods for some ungodly reason, Mary’s full on stroking himself through his jeans, growling when he finds that he can’t slip his hand under the denim with that stupid belt in the way. He angrily tugs off the belt completely and tosses it over his shoulder, landing with a clatter somewhere behind him. _Whatever_. He’ll find it later. For now, he’s focusing on the ragged breaths of the haunting presence, Mary’s own heavy breathing not-so-unintentionally syncing up as he pops the button of his jeans and undoes the zipper. He spits into his palm. 

Mary finally takes himself in hand, skin on heated skin, while the killer sneaks up behind the somehow oblivious couple, caught in the poorly acted throes of uncomfortable woodland floor passion. He sighs in partial impatience; no one wants to see Frankie’s fucking shoulder blocking what would’ve been an at least somewhat interesting view of Jill’s exposed skin. The killer’s axe cleaves through the obvious mannequin standing in for Frankie, synthetic blood spattering over an under-acting Jill. 

“Oh, shit–!” 

_There we go._ Mary grits his teeth, legs spreading of their own accord, eyes half-lidded, though intent on keeping his gaze on the screen. One of his boots slips off the table when he bucks his hips, thudding heavily on the hardwood floor. Between that and the shrieking as Jill bumbles and flails her way through the woods, the neighbor sets to pounding on the wall again. 

“Shut up!” 

“Fu– _hnn_–! Fuck off!” 

Mary swallows, his head tipping back against the couch to stare blearily at the ceiling, face flushing a little at the break in his voice. Dude probably knew he was trying to get off, judging by the fact that he for once didn’t fire back with the expected bland insults. He grins, a horrible idea forming in his head. 

Letting his eyes slip shut, Mary tries to stifle a laugh before giving his best porn star moan. He has to bite his lip against the cackle he feels welling up in his chest; it’s painfully fake to his own ears, but it’s not like he has anyone to actually impress. Still, his cock throbs in his hand at the thought of being heard. A part of him kind of wants to draw it out for as long as possible, but he knows damn well he’s too impatient for that. Besides, it’s fake. He could even keep making those sounds while he gets back to work in his notebook or throws together a haphazard 2pm breakfast. 

His hand speeds up once the scene shifts from that boring police station bullshit back to the fun parts. The killer peers through the windows of the summer cabin under the shroud of darkness at the partying college students inside. This is his _favorite scene_. Well, almost. But in the meantime…

Another loud, drawn out moan rings out over the sound of the droning, ambient horror movie soundtrack, rumbling deep in his chest. Fuck, that… actually feels really good. Much better than muffling himself with his other hand or by digging his teeth into whatever was closest. He’s hardly even paying attention to the movie anymore, instead slouching further down the couch and focusing on the feeling of his slick hand slowly working on his cock. Just for kicks, he moans a couple more times, varying in volume and intensity. He cracks one eye open, not even sure when he closed them again, just in time to catch the killer busting their way through the window to choke out one of the obnoxious frat bros. 

_Almost…_

The killer spins around and slices through the throat of another slightly less annoying minor character, more bright red corn syrup blood drenching everyone and everything within a 3 foot radius, and all from the point of view of the antagonist.

_Yeah, right there. _

His pace quickens once again, spurred on by the blood (_they even got the correct color and consistency for the arterial spray, oh fuck_), screaming, and his own brazenness. Speaking of. 

“I’m so close, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he gasps, making sure to project his voice as best he can from his slouched position. Pressure builds up in his chest, escaping as ragged, desperate groans that increase in volume and frequency the closer he gets, hips now twitching of their own accord. Mary’s free hand deathgrips the back of the couch’s headrest, something audibly tearing right by his ear when he tenses, a white hot metal coil being wound impossibly tight. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he whines, still much louder than necessary. His entire face is embarrassingly hot, all the way to the tips of his ears; even his eyes somehow burn when he allows them to roll shut. “Please, fuck, pleaseple_aseplease_–” 

He has no idea who exactly he’s begging; just an embarrassing habit that he can’t seem to shake, more than anything. It’s getting a little difficult to form coherent thoughts, but what else is new? He doesn’t need that to keep making some noise. On screen, some popular scream queen who Mary unfortunately can’t remember the name of easily lives up to her title, shrieking and gasping as blood sprays all over her face in some macabre mockery of a cumshot. 

All that pressure building inside of him finally snaps. 

A low, broken noise reverberates through the empty apartment as he cums hard enough to practically knock the wind out of himself, fucking up into his hand, voice nearly completely ruined as more moans spill out one after the other. Distantly, he notices that the woman on screen is still screaming. Rivulets of crimson cascade down her neck, following the curves of her breasts, and completely saturate her impractically low cut white dress. He slows his hand and despite being completely spent, it takes him a moment to stop. She runs her hands up her chest, fingers coming away bloody and she stares at them almost as if in disbelief before screaming again. _God, that’s a good fucking scene. _

Mary can feel his heart pounding in every inch of his body. Dazed, he looks down at the thoroughly debauched mess he’s made of himself. There’s cum on his hand, of course, and some threatening to drip from his skin onto the couch. He scowls at the splatters that somehow made it just a few inches below his neckline. At least it didn’t get on the vest, which he finally shrugs out of so that he can pull off his shirt. He uses it to clean up whatever cum it didn’t catch in the first place and unceremoniously tosses that over his shoulder as well. Clean and presentable enough for his liking, (that is, no shirt, skinny jeans low on his hips, looking a complete mess, but at least his dick’s put away for once) he finally sits up straight and fumbles around for his lighter, patting down the inner pocket of his vest for his half-crushed pack of cigarettes. Repeating his earlier position, he tips his head back against the headrest so that he can stare at the ceiling, lazily watching the thin ribbons of pale, grey smoke rise and disperse. It’s supposed to be a non smoking apartment complex, but the previous tenant’s nicotine stains on the ceiling say otherwise. Slowly but surely, his heart rate returns to normal and the tremors in his hands subside just a little. Mary snuffs out the ember before it reaches the filter and hauls himself up to collect his clothing, tossing it through his doorway and in a heap by his bed, trudging back to the kitchen. 

He dumps two or three spoonfuls of sugar into a bowl of already disgustingly sweet rainbow cereal. The landlord may or may not have a few interesting things to say to him later, if his idiot neighbor can even pluck up the courage to say anything, but for right now he’s free to finish his shitty slasher movie and even shittier cereal, feeling much more relaxed and at peace than when he had first gotten home.

**Author's Note:**

> Mary likes POV porn, pass it on.


End file.
